


Third Date

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Romance, Dating, Friends to Lovers, Fun, Jealousy, M/M, Relationship Advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John Watson dates a lot of women, but never gets beyond the Third Date.Sherlock solves it.





	Third Date

Lestrade knocked on the door of 221B. He’d been out with a few friends and scored a couple football tickets off of a buddy who had other plans. He knew John would love to go. Watson preferred rugby, but often came over to watch football with Greg if he wasn’t busy. But to sit in the stands and watch a match would be even better.

Sherlock opened the door. He was wearing pyjama bottoms, a grubby t-shirt, and his old grey bathrobe. His eyes were red.

“You okay, Sherlock?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Greg squeezed by him. “Is John home?”

Sherlock flopped into his chair, throwing his leg over the arm of the chair, his arm over his forehead. _Victorian maiden pose,_ John called it. _I’m going to get him a fainting couch for his birthday._

“John is not home,” he said. “Obviously. It’s Friday evening and he has a _girlfriend_ , as he constantly reminds me.”

“Oh, Laura? He’s been seeing her for a while now, hasn’t he?”

“First date, two weeks ago; they went to a movie. A shooting movie. James Bond. Hand-holding, awkward arm-around-shoulder manoeuvre. Date number two, a week ago: rollerblading. Something like disco, but on skates. More hand-holding, lots of twirling, some falling down, giggling and a bit of snogging. Tonight, he’s taking her to dinner — at Angelo’s.” As he said the last word, his voice broke and a look of pain crossed his face.

“I see. I suppose they are getting on well, then.”

“No, you don’t see,” Sherlock said, drawing his knees up into his chest. How such a tall man could shrink himself into such a small package, Lestrade had never figured out. “Third date. The Sex Date. Nice dinner, and then…” He gave a muffled sob. “Angelo’s. That was where I took him. _Our_ first date. They will probably sit at our table…”

Lestrade sat in John’s chair. This was going to take a while. “Listen mate, John never gets very serious about girls—”

“Third date, Lestrade. Do you know how rarely he gets to date number three? Most of his females disappear after one date — two at most. Statistically, he will one day get to date four, and then who knows? He closed his eyes. “I wonder if I’ll be invited to the wedding.”

Lestrade didn’t mention that John had probably never considered that night at Angelo’s an actual date, seeing as how he was _not gay,_ as he insisted _._ Lestrade had his doubts about that, but let it lie. Nor did he mention John’s nickname: _Three Dates Watson_. “It’s just a date, Sherlock. He’s not getting married.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He said he likes her, that’s all. She’s fun.”

“ _Fun_.” Sherlock tasted the word as if it were an alien bit of something in his soup. “They’ll begin to cohabit within a month, six weeks tops. Then they’ll buy blenders and monogramed towels and candle-snuffers and things that couples buy. They’ll go on double dates with her friends. He’ll meet her mother who is on her fourth marriage and her younger brother who got his girlfriend pregnant and dropped out of school. By Christmas, he’ll buy her a ring, and then they’ll be picking a venue, sending out _save the date_ cards, taking dance lessons—”

“Sherlock, stop.” Lestrade drew a deep breath. “Why don’t you just tell him?”

“Because.” Sherlock gave another plaintive sigh. “He doesn’t feel that way. It will make him uncomfortable, and he’ll have to move out because it will be awkward. And then he’ll stop coming over because it won’t get any less awkward after he moves out. Eventually, we won’t see each other at all. Too awkward. I don’t think I could survive that.”

“You don’t know that he doesn’t feel that way. He might have those feelings, too.”

“He doesn’t. _I’m not gay_ , he says. Constantly. Haven’t you been paying attention? People assume we’re a couple, and he says, _I’m not gay._ He won’t even touch me, unless he’s patching me up or checking my pulse or something.” He eyed Lestrade resentfully. “He touches you all the time — and you’re clearly _not gay_! You hug each other, you sit together on the couch watching people kick a ball around, you do that mock-fighting thing where you grab each other and pretend to wrestle—”

“That’s different,” Lestrade said. “We’re friends. Mates. Bros. We don’t have any of those feelings for each other.”

Sherlock chewed his lip. “So, you’re saying that he doesn’t touch me because I’m gay.”

“No, I’m saying that he _might_ feel something for you.”

“Then why doesn’t he give me a sign?” Sherlock moaned, then sat up suddenly, his eyes wide. “Or maybe he has, and I haven’t noticed?” He flopped back down into the chair. “I’m an idiot. I don’t even know how to do this.”

“Look, I don’t know how John feels, I’m just—”

Sherlock glared at him. “Why don’t you know? If you’re _bros_ , why haven’t you talked about this? I know he complains to you about me. I can see it on both of your faces when you’re talking and I come into the room.”

“We haven’t talked about feelings. He hasn’t said, and I haven’t asked.” Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer — if you feel it’s too personal.”

“All right.”

“Have you ever had a…” _What was the best word for it?_ “A boyfriend?”

“Yes. Well, almost. What counts as a boyfriend?”

“Have you ever kissed another man — non-platonically?”

“Yes.”

“How did that work out?”

“Not well. He punched me and called me a queer.”

“Have you ever had sex with another man?”

“Almost.”

“Almost? You mean, you didn’t go all the way?”

“I mean we were both high, and we got naked, and he wanted to, but then he passed out. The next day, he didn’t remember, and I was embarrassed because he wasn’t gay and would never have suggested it if we hadn’t been high. I was in love with him, but he was my roommate at uni, and I didn’t want to mess up our friendship.”

“And that’s what you’re afraid of with John — messing up what you have. Is John at all like this other bloke?”

“Not at all. I realise now that my roommate wasn’t a very nice person. He was the one who introduced me to cocaine. I had to take a gap year and go to rehab. Mycroft sent him packing, and I never saw him again.”

“I think you need to talk to John.”

“Why would John want me? I’m not _fun._ I’ve never rollerbladed and I don’t like shooting movies. I’m no good at relationships at all — look at what a terrible friend I am. He’s always telling me what a berk I am, yelling at me about my experiments, and pointing out how inconsiderate I am.”

“And you call him an idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot. I just say that because—” He closed his mouth and stared at the skull. “It’s an endearment,” he muttered.

“Talk to him. At least think about it.”

“You could talk to him.” Sherlock eagerly gripped Lestrade’s arm. “If he’s not amenable, I can tell him you made it all up. Then he won’t hate me.”

“He’s not going to hate you. And he needs to hear it from you. Think about it, okay?”

Sherlock nodded morosely.

 

When Lestrade arrived home, John was sitting in his living room watching a show about jellyfish. His wife and children were in bed.

Plopping himself on the couch, he swung his arm around John’s shoulders. “So, how was it? Wasn’t this supposed to be the Sex Date?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me everything.”

A deep sigh. “We broke up.”

“Really? I thought you two were doing all right.”

“So did I.”

“So, why did you break up?”

“I didn’t. She did.”

“Ouch. Didn’t see it coming, I suppose.”

“No.”

“She give a reason? Did she say, _it’s not you, it’s me_? Women always say that.”

“She definitely didn’t say that. In fact, it _is_ me, according to her.”

“Okay, you’re leaving out a lot of details, mate. Fill me in. How did it go down — or not go down, I guess…”

“The evening started out well. We went to Angelo’s. I anticipated that afterwards we would go back to her place and snog a bit, and maybe push it to the next level. But we didn’t even make it out of the restaurant. We ordered dinner and were sipping our wine. I read the blurb on the label in a snooty accent. She laughed. She thought it was cute. Then, before I could start flirting seriously, she said to me, _John, this isn’t working._ ”

Lestrade sat up. “Wait. Wait a minute. She was laughing at your joke — not _pretending_ to laugh?”

John sighed deeply. “I don’t know anymore. I know nothing about anything. It didn’t seem like she was pretending. Then— wham! _This isn’t working._ So I said, _What do you mean?_ She said, _you and I, this relationship._ Still in the dark, I said, _I like you, Laura. I thought that was obvious._ She gave me this intense look. _Yes, you like me,_ she said, stressing the word _like,_ as if that was the problem.”

“Wow. She didn’t even wait for the food?”

“I’m not sure what the etiquette is on breaking up over dinner, Greg. Should she have waited until cheesecake and coffee?”

“No, that would have been heartless, I think,” he said. “If a person wants to break up over dinner, they shouldn’t wait until they’ve ordered cheesecake. But what was the problem? I assume she had a reason — women always feel compelled to explain things. Especially why something is your fault.”

“She said that she enjoyed my company, and could see that I enjoyed hers, but that she couldn’t date me anymore because, in her words: _you’re in love with someone else._ ”

“She thought you were seeing someone else? How’d she get that idea? You’ve never dated more than one girl at a time.”

“No. You misunderstand: she didn’t say _dating someone else._ She said, _in love with someone else._ So I said, _who do you mean_? She sort of rolled her eyes—”

“Rolled her eyes?”

“Not a complete roll. Not a _Sherlock_ eyeroll. Just a bit, like she couldn’t believe I was so dense. She said, _why do we never go to your flat after our dates?_ Well, that’s no secret. So I said, _because my flatmate is insane._ You know how he is, Greg. I just can’t bring women home anymore. He always sets the flat on fire or fills the sink with eels or decides to dissect something on the kitchen table. He drives them away.”

Greg did know. What was more than a bit odd was how long it had taken John to figure out that introducing a woman to his flatmate was death to any relationship. “Did she ever meet him?”

“We had coffee after work one day, and I asked her up to the flat, thinking we could pop in for a moment so she could meet him. Small dose, watch for side effects. She handled it fairly well, I thought. He had fingers spread out on the table. I mean just fingers, severed fingers. Something about acid and fingerprints. It smelled bad, but at least there wasn’t any smoke. Or blood.”

“Sounds pretty tame, for Sherlock.”

“He did ask when she planned to break up with me, citing my _many previous attempts at having coitus with a woman_.”

 _Well, there you have it._ “Hm. Not good.”

“No, but she agreed to go out with me again, so I assumed I’d finally found someone who could put up with him. I said, _I know he can be a berk, but he’s my mate and I kinda love him._ She said, _exactly. Exactly.”_

“Exactly what?”

“She thinks I’m in love with him. Because I said _I kinda love him._ ”

Lestrade was silent, digesting this. John had always been quick to deny he was gay. He hadn’t denied it this time. And he had used the word _love_ in his explanation. “What did you tell her?”

“I asked her what made her think that. She said, _you look at him the way I want you to look at me._ _You talk about him constantly, how amazing he is, how brilliant and insane and — you put up with all his crap. Yes, he is a berk. And you do love him.”_

“Well, all that’s true, isn’t it?”

 _“_ Of course. He’s my friend.”

“But she didn’t mean she was breaking up with you because he’s your _friend_.”

“No. She said, _You’re in love with him. And he’s in love with you._ ”

“Do you think he is?”

“In love with me?” John laughed. “Sherlock? He isn’t like that. He’s not interested in a relationship. Not like that.”

“Are you sure? Did he ever tell you he wasn’t interested?”

“The first time we ate at Angelo’s — we had just become flatmates — I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he said, _not my area.”_

“Well, that just means he isn’t interested in women. I think we all knew that.”

“But that’s not all. Once he’d made it clear about women, I said, _boyfriend?_ Because I wasn’t sure — you know, not wanting to seem heteronormative—”

“Hetero— what?”

“You know, expecting everyone to be heterosexual. So I asked if he had a boyfriend. I said it was fine. He said, _I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m not really looking for anyone._ ”

“Well, maybe he’s interested now.”

“Greg, I’m… I don’t… I’m not…”

“John, your sister is gay, isn’t she?”

“Yes. I don’t think it’s genetic, though.”

“How did your parents react when she came out?”

“My mum stopped having opinions when I was eight, so it was just my dad at that point. I was eleven, and Harry was almost fourteen. She’d been out late, and when he confronted her about breaking curfew, she said she didn’t care, and that she’d been with her _girlfriend_ , and went on to describe in graphic detail just what they’d been doing. He hit her. He said, _no child of mine will ever be queer._ He threw her out of the house. I didn’t see her until three years later. Dad was dead by then.”

“Did he ever beat you?”

“All the time. He was an alcoholic, couldn’t hold a job. He took out a lot on me. I understand that. Especially after Harry left, I was supposed to be the responsible one. He wanted me to be what he couldn’t be. If I ever fell out of line, he hit me until I got back in line. If I’d ever done what Harry did, I’d be dead now.”

“So, you’ve never been with another bloke.”

“I didn’t say that.” John looked uncomfortable. “I know what you’re trying to do — get me to admit that I’m not completely straight.”

“You don’t need to admit anything to me, John. I’m your friend, whether you’re straight, gay, or somewhere in between. Whatever you are, it’s your own business.”

John was silent for a full minute. “Do you think I’m in love with him?”

Greg suppressed a laugh. _Everybody does,_ he wanted to say. But that wouldn’t do. “I only know what I see. It’s clear that you love him. Whether that means _in love,_ I don’t know.”

“Is he in love with me?”

“Think about it, John. How did he act the last time you got hurt? The time Moriarty strapped you up with explosives? When you fell in the Thames and ended up with pneumonia? He goes out of his mind worrying about you. Does he do that with anyone else?”

“Oh, God.” John put his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

“How do you feel about Laura breaking up with you?”

“Actually… relieved. I guess I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better that it was sooner… Christ. Why am I always the last to figure things out?”

“Go home, John. Talk to him.”

 

After a few days of silence from 221B, Lestrade texted Sherlock.

_Have you talked to him? — GL_

_No. He said he was no longer dating that woman — SH_

_Good. Did he explain why? — GL_

_I didn’t ask — SH_

 

“He has invited me to accompany him to the cinema,” Sherlock told Lestrade several days later.

“A date?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “We are not in a dating relationship,” he replied. “A James Bond film is showing at the local cinema. He simply asked if I would go with him.” He looked gloomily at Lestrade. “He’s made me watch shooting movies before, on the telly, but he never asked me to go to the cinema before. What does it mean?”

“I think it means that he enjoys your company.” Lestrade smiled.

Sherlock looked skeptical. “Perhaps it means that he currently lacks any female prospects and prefers not to go alone.”

“When has John ever lacked _prospects_?” Lestrade pointed out. “If he wanted to ask a woman, he’d find one. I think he asked you because he prefers you.”

Sherlock continued to look unconvinced. “He never did before.”

 

Lestrade thought of popping by Baker Street to see how the first date went, but restrained himself. This was something Sherlock and John needed to figure out for themselves.

Three days later, he returned to his office with a cup of coffee and a pastry to find Sherlock sitting in his chair.

“I need to learn how to rollerblade,” the consulting detective announced.

“You and… John?” _Ah, yes. Second date._ “I take it the first date went well.”

Sherlock nodded. “He held my hand, but did not attempt the awkward arm-over-the-shoulder manoeuvre. I have not yet acquired enough data to know why. Now, if you could just relate the most important information about rollerblading, I’ll be on my way. You have five minutes. Don’t skip anything.”

“Sherlock,” he said with as much patience as he could muster. “Why do you think I’m a bloody expert on rollerblading?”

“You have children. Children go to birthday parties where such activities take place. You, being a doting father, would not want your children awkwardly standing on the side — or getting hurt. So, if you please, instruct me.”

“You Tube, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock replied. “I have no time to listen to people droning on about… things. I know how to put on skates. I need a concise explanation of what comes after. Bullet points will be fine.”

“It might be better if you had John teach you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How would that be _better_?” he asked. “Once he sees me falling all over the rink, he’ll know that I’m _not fun._ ”

“You misunderstand the purpose of the second date,” Lestrade said, biting into his pastry. “You’re supposed to be awkward. You’re supposed to fall. That gives him the opportunity to catch you.”

Enlightened, Sherlock nodded. “Ah. Physical contact. Of course.” He frowned. “But how will that work with the height differential? John is, of course, physically quite strong, but he’s a good half foot shorter than me, and his centre of gravity is correspondingly lower, so I might possibly unbalance him if I’m clinging to him. This might embarrass him.”

“It’ll be fine. He’s got great balance, used to do gymnastics.”

“Did he?” Sherlock looked distressed. “How do I not know that? I was certain that I had catalogued all of his sport activities.”

“Sherlock, you don’t need to catalogue John. Just go, have fun with him.”

The detective gave him a gloomy look. “Fun,” he said. “If only it were that easy.”

 

A week later, John called.

“Hey, how’d the rollerblading go?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, fine. Sherlock was really cute. He kept trying to twirl us around, and we kept ending up on the ground. I think he watched some You Tube videos or something.”

“So what's next?”

John was silent, chewing his lip.

“Third date?” Lestrade prompted.

“I'm an idiot,” John said in a rush. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Whoa. You've changed your mind?”

“No, not that. It's— I've been going about this all wrong. I've been doing what I always do. You know, Three Dates Watson?”

“I never said that, John. It was Anderson who started that.”

“Doesn't matter. It's true. I never make it past the third date. Before it didn't matter. I was always ready to move on by then. But now, I want it to work. And I've set myself up for failure.”

“John, the three dates strategy was never wrong. That wasn't the problem. It was the women. They were the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you pick expendable women, women easy to break up with. Nice, but incompatible. And they know you're not serious.”

John sighed. “Well, I think we've established that women aren't really my area. Not exclusively, at least.”

“So what's date three going to be?” Lestrade asked.

“That's just it. I don't know. Ordinarily I would take a date out to dinner and back to their place for a bit of snogging and see if I get lucky. But It's never worked out, and you know what they say about doing the same thing and expecting different results…”

“Sherlock is already different. He's unique, so no use comparing him to all the Janes and Jennifers and Jeanettes you've dated. But you have an advantage: you know him. What would he like?”

“A crime scene?”

“Maybe dinner,” he suggested. “How about Angelo’s?”

 

He was working late, at a crime scene — not the type of crime that would have had Sherlock dashing about, swirling his coat and popping his collar, just a garden-variety corpse in a garden with a knife sticking out of his chest and a roommate covered in blood, screaming about _it was his own fault, he never puts things away, he always eats my food, he broke my mobile, never pays me back…_

It was nearly two in the morning. Things were wrapping up, Donovan putting the roommate in the car, Anderson taking blood samples and bagging evidence, when his phone rang.

It was Jones, calling from the lock-up. “Holding a couple friends of yours here, Guv,” he said. “You might want to stop by.”

Sherlock was sitting on the bench in the cell, leaning against the wall, his long legs wrapped around John, who was in his lap. John’s lip was bleeding and he had a black eye. They appeared to be asleep.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said. “Sherlock! John! What the hell?”

Sherlock stretched. John fell off of his lap and landed on the floor. They looked around as if they had no idea where they were.

“Wh’appen?” John said. “Jus’ cluing for looks.”

“No cheesecake for me,” Sherlock mumbled. “Cheque, please.”

Lestrade turned to Jones. “We’ll need coffee, I think.”

Once they were vertical, drinking the coffee, he said, “Boys, this was supposed to be the Sex Date, not the Get Drunk Off Your Arse Date.”

Sherlock waved his hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture. “Accomplished.”

John smiled. “We did that before the restaurant.”

“It’s not optimal to have sex right after a large meal that includes alcohol,” Sherlock explained. “The blood needed to produce an erection is diverted to digestion, resulting in less satisfactory performance.”

John nodded. “He researched it.” He grinned. “We proved it, too. It was an experiment.”

“So when did the drinking begin?”

“We fell asleep,” John said. “And woke up hungry around eleven. Angelo’s stops serving at ten, so we went to a pub.”

“And I noted that we’d been at this particular establishment on a case,” Sherlock added.

“And Sherlock had this brilliant idea that we would have a drink at each pub we’d ever been to on a case. I could only think of two, but Sherlock—”

“How many pubs?” Lestrade asked. “Do I want to know?”

“Our nostalgic tour of crime scenes involving alcohol would have included seven venues,” said Sherlock, “but we only made it to five. I forget why.”

“The bloke,” said John, frowning. “Wanted to dance with you.”

“Wouldn’t take no,” added Sherlock. “I remember now.”

John’s face darkened. “Couldn’t keep his hands off you. An’ I said—”

“ _Get your fucking hands off my boyfriend!”_ Sherlock finished. He looked proud.

“I busted ‘em,” said John. “Din’ I?”

Sherlock smiled. “You did. Then somebody called the police.”

“And then it was a crime scene!” John said. “Best third date _ever_.”


End file.
